


Old Took’s House of Books

by menecio



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book Shops, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Blanket Permission, Childhood, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27359005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menecio/pseuds/menecio
Summary: Thorin Durin II, a Hogwarts first-year shopping for his equipment with his parents, meets a strange boy in one of Diagon Alley’s lesser-known bookshops.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 14
Kudos: 88





	Old Took’s House of Books

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bleucalire](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bleucalire).



> I wrote this for my dear friend [Claire](https://twitter.com/bleucalire)’s birthday about five years ago. I decided to post it now, with minimal tweaks. This story would be very different if I wrote it now, but I’m happy enough with it to finally share it. Enjoy! 💖✨
> 
> Also, _The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage_ is a real book, I shit you not. You can read it [here](https://www.sacred-texts.com/grim/abr/index.htm).

Flourish and Blotts was temporarily closed due to an outbreak of bookworms, so the Durins were forced to go to what Mrs Durin dubbed ‘the second-best option’ Diagon Alley had to offer. Thorin’s father looked displeased, but he pushed his way through the crowd in an unfamiliar direction all the same. They left behind Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour and Amanuensis Quills and Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, and soon stopped in front of a round little green shop. Thorin squinted up at its sign. It read:

Old Took’s House of Books  
Read | Lend | Trade | Buy

He wondered who this ‘Old Took’ person was, then hurried after his parents as they entered the shop. A bell over the door tinkled softly to signal their arrival, and Thorin let his eyes roam the place: there were bookcases covering the walls from floor to ceiling, and floating shelves that hovered about just out of reach until someone showed an interest in one of the books it was holding, and tables with piles and piles of books and tomes and scrolls and parchments and a bowl of candy each. Plants hung from places unseen, and there was a fishbowl in the counter with a small glowing octopus inside.

It was all rather odd. Flourish and Blotts was a lot less extravagant. But then again, Flourish and Blotts had always bored Thorin to death.

“Anyone here?” asked Thorin’s father. He sounded irritated.

A slim hand came to rest between Thorin’s shoulder blades, and he looked up to find his mother smiling down at him. It was a tight smile, the one she always wore whenever something unpleasant was about to take place and she was steeling herself for it. She always looked like that whenever Thorin’s grandfather visited.

There came a crashing noise from somewhere in the bowels of the shop. Someone cussed, making Thorin’s father huff and his mother’s smile turn a bit more genuine. There were some more noises, but this time they sounded like a person who was trying to tidy up at top speed without the aid of magic.

“Coming!” an old man’s voice shouted.

“Go have a look around, son,” Thorin’s mother urged him. “You might find something that catches your eye, and we still owe you a birthday present.”

“He won’t find anything worth a Knut in this place,” scoffed his father.

“Mr Took has books from all over the world,” she countered.

“That doesn’t make them good books,” Thorin’s father scoffed again. He made a dismissing gesture with his hand, not even looking at his son. “Go on, then. Go _explore_ , Thorin.”

“Thráin,” Thorin’s mother chided.

Thorin slipped away before his parents could begin arguing. He didn’t like it when they did that in front of him. It always meant he would get pulled into the quarrel at some point, and they would make him take sides, and then he would be on bad terms with one of his two parents for at least a month. He preferred avoiding that situation altogether, whenever possible.

He meandered down the shop’s aisles, hands clasped behind his back. It felt a bit like a labyrinth since they weren’t laid out in parallel or anything of the sort. As a matter of fact, it felt like whomever owned the shop had brought in dozens of bookshelves and left them where they had landed when the levitation spell ended.

One of the tables near the back of the shop was creaking under the weight of many old dusty tomes. They looked like the sort of thing Thorin’s father would approve of, so he walked up to it. Most titles were in Latin or Ancient Runes, and Thorin wasn’t good enough at either to read complex texts in those languages yet. A few books were written in English, though, which meant that Thorin would be able to read them without trouble.

He picked one up. _The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage_. The name rang a bell, but Thorin couldn’t remember if they already had a copy of it in their large library. Besides, he wasn’t allowed to read certain sections until he grew older. If the book was indeed back home in one of the forbidden shelves, he had no way of knowing.

Another book caught his eye, bound in dark-red leather. Thorin set _Abramelin_ down and traced the smooth cover. No author or title was present. Thorin opened the book. It was blank. He frowned at the pages, crisp and browned with age under his fingertips, and thumbed through them to see if he found something written somewhere. There was nothing.

“Hello.”

Thorin slammed the book shut and jumped back. A boy peered at him from the end of the aisle, half-hiding behind the bookshelves. He was clad in yellow-and-white robes, had tousled reddish locks and freckled round cheeks, and his eyes were large and bright. The contrast with Thorin’s black robes and angular complexion felt like needles pricking his skin.

Remaining silent, Thorin glared at the boy the same way he glared at his siblings when he wanted to be left alone. It was an effective glare, he knew. The boy in front of him, however, seemed undeterred by it. He even went as far as giving a step forward, his thin lips curling into a smile.

“Do you need help? If you’re looking for anything in particular, I can—”

“No.”

The boy’s smile waned. “No? Oh. I thought—I thought you might be. I mean, you look like a first-year, and first-years need all sorts of books. Grandad even has first-year packs ready for when someone comes in looking to buy the lot. Or we have the lending section! Meant for those who prefer borrowing second-hand books for the school year to buying them,” the boy finished, and then he cleared his throat. “But, er, I guess since you’re not a first-year—”

“I never said that.”

“Oh. So you _are_ a first-year.”

“Do I look like a first-year to you?” Thorin snapped.

The boy in front of him stilled, his eyes widening. He looked younger than Frerin, perhaps even younger than Dís, and he was obviously not used to being treated with such harshness. Thorin considered softening his words and actions, but quickly dismissed the idea. He had to be strong—as strong as a diamond, like his grandfather always said.

It wasn’t that being a first-year was a bad thing. Everyone started a first-year, but being a beginner was sometimes enough to be mocked by others. People tended to overlook one’s potential and replace it with presumptions that made no sense. Youth did not cancel out intelligence in the same way that old age did not cure stupidity. Few were the ones who saw this, and that was the reason why Thorin went to great lengths to appear older than his eleven summers.

“I think so?” the boy finally said. “You don’t look old.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Old?”

“Yes.”

“You think second-years are _old_?”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “Well, students never look very excited to go shopping for their books and stuff after the first year. It turns monto—monon—mo-non-to-nose.”

“Monotonous.”

“Yes, that, thank you.”

The boy shifted his weight, naked pink toes peeking from under his robes. He was barefoot. In the middle of a shop. And he had been let in? Not that noticing his being shoeless would have been easy with the way his robes covered him all the way down to the floor. And, in any case, it seemed that since the boy was the owner’s grandson, he was allowed into the shop dressed however he wanted.

Thorin wondered what it might be like, walking around barefoot and with wind-swept hair. Dressed in bright and garish colours. Thorin had been taught to mind his image from his infancy, so he couldn’t imagine going out looking like that, but maybe it was nice. Maybe it was pleasant, not having to check oneself three times in the mirror before stepping out of the house.

“So you think I look excited,” Thorin blurted. He needed to stop thinking.

“Sorry?”

“You said first-years look excited when they go shopping for their equipment.”

“Oh. Er, I mean, yes. I see them every year when they come in, all starry-eyed. The second year, that’s gone. And on the third, they kind of have this frown between their eyebrows.” The boy pointed at the spot he meant, furrowing his brow. “And it doesn’t go away after it shows up. It makes them look really old. But you don’t look old.”

“What makes you say that?”

The boy shrugged. “You just don’t. You look smart, though. Very smart. Grandad always says that being a grown-up doesn’t mean you have grown up, and kids can be smarter than adults sometimes. I don’t know how true that is, but I think you’re smarter than most first-years.”

“You’d be right to think that,” Thorin said, puffing out his chest. “But… _why_ do you think that?”

“No other first-year has ever looked at those books.” The boy pointed at the table Thorin had just been perusing. “They go straight for the kids’ section.”

“There’s a kids’ section in this chaos?”

For the first time since they began talking, the boy looked displeased. He puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms, levelling Thorin with a hot glare. Thorin took a small step back.

“Haven’t you been reading the signs?” said the boy, pointing at something above Thorin’s head. “They’re all over the place!”

“I didn’t see them.”

“Because you weren’t looking for them.”

“I should see them even if I’m not looking for them. That’s what signs are for,” Thorin sniped, crossing his arms as well. “It’s not my fault your grandfather chose the most obscure places to hang them!”

“Silly,” the boy muttered.

“ _You’re_ the one running barefoot in a bookshop,” Thorin retorted.

“Bilbo?”

They both gave a little jump, and Bilbo twirled around to look at someone, his robes flaring out at the bottom and making him look like a yellow bellflower. The aisle didn’t let Thorin see who the person was, but the voice had sounded very much like the one he had heard cussing a while before.

“Yes, Grandad?”

“Who are you talking to?” A man came into view then, old and wrinkled and with curly white sideburns that matched his mop of white hair. He gave Thorin a delighted smile. “Well, hello. I didn’t know Bilbo had let in any friends today.”

“He isn’t a friend,” the boy—Bilbo—said. “He’s a first-year!”

“Oh? Well, then, my dear young wizard, I do believe your parents have just purchased your books and are waiting for you at the front of the shop. You mum mentioned something about a birthday present, I believe?”

After a beat, Thorin nodded. “Yes.”

“Good, good. Bilbo can show you some nice books you might like,” the bookseller said, ruffling Bilbo’s hair. “Isn’t it right, my boy?”

“Yes, Grandad,” Bilbo giggled.

“Good. Go on and show him, then,” the old man said, ushering them down the aisle. Thorin felt the need to snap that he didn’t care for being patronised, but the old man’s chuckle stopped him. “You two have no business here, in the so-boring-you-might-cry section.”

Thorin frowned, but he trailed after Bilbo, feet dragging. He didn’t want to go to the kids’ section. They never had anything interesting there, except maybe for the books that told you how to jinx your enemies and impress your peers, but Thorin already excelled at magic, even if he hadn’t even bought his wand yet, and he was sure that any books meant for children his age would be far too dull and easy.

Bilbo navigated the labyrinthine mass of piled-up books and anarchic bookshelves, ducking under floating shelves and warning Thorin to do the same on more than one occasion. When they reached their destination, Thorin made a conscious effort not to gape. There was a small sign hanging from the nearest bookcase: _Advanced Magic—Spells, Charms, Potions, Curses, Amulets, Brews, Jinxes, and More_.

“This isn’t the kids’ section,” Thorin said.

“Nope. Anyhoo, we’ve got the latest book of spells by Adaire Dupree,” said Bilbo, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning from ear to ear. “Carollan Tombend’s _Fascinarium of Fascinating Fascinations_ , too.”

“I don’t like Tombend,” Thorin muttered.

Not waiting for a reply, he went up to a bookshelf and pulled out a book on countering jinxes with more powerful jinxes. He opened the book and leafed through it. There were moving graphic illustrations every few pages, and a soft voice would float up from the book if he traced his fingers over the spells written in Ancient Runes.

Thorin set the book back down and moved on. He was interested in jinxes and spells as much as any other eleven-year-old, but his family held certain interests—specific interests—and he wasn’t about to buy a book on jinxing when he could purchase one that he truly needed and wanted.

There. Thorin pulled a book from one of the shelves. _Talismans and How to Unleash Their True Power_. He picked another from a lower shelf. _Carving a Gem with Magical Properties: Dos and Don’ts_. They already had these books, but Thorin had always wanted his own copies to jot things down without being reprimanded. Perhaps his father would buy him both. He would certainly approve of Thorin’s choices.

Bilbo peered down at the covers, confusion plain on his face. “You want those? First-years usually—”

“We’ve established that I’m not like other first-years,” Thorin interrupted him, holding both books to his chest. “Now show me where the counter is.”

Bilbo frowned. “And the magical words?”

Now it was Thorin’s turn to frown. “What magical words? I can’t perform spells anyway. I haven’t been to Ollivander’s yet. We’ll go there as soon as we’re done buying everything else. Family tradition.”

Thorin hadn’t meant to say the last part. For some reason, he had blurted it out before he could think better of it. He stiffened when the words registered in his mind, and he was about to snap at Bilbo to distract him from the fact that he had just confessed to something terribly personal when the boy said, “My mum is dead.”

Whatever Thorin had been expecting him to say, that wasn’t it. He blinked, clutching the books tighter, and kept silent. Bilbo looked down at his feet, and then back up. He smiled. Thorin didn’t smile back.

“And Dad’s too sad to take care of me, so I live with Grandad. We don’t have family traditions. He says they died with Mum and every other child of his that passed away in the War,” Bilbo explained, and his smile was pinched like the one Thorin’s mother sometimes had. “We go to the Leaky Cauldron to have dinner every Wednesday, though, so maybe that’s a tradition? Traditions sound nice.”

“They aren’t,” Thorin said. He looked down. “I don’t want to be in Slytherin.”

“Why not?”

“Because You-Know-Who was in Slytherin, and my family has enough of a bad reputation already, even if we fought against him during the War. I don’t want my family name to be tarnished forever.”

Bilbo bit his lower lip. After a few seconds, he said, “Merlin was in Slytherin.”

“I don’t want to be in Slytherin.”

“You don’t have to.” Bilbo shrugged. “I’m just saying Slytherin isn’t all bad. Just like Gryffindor isn’t all brave and Ravenclaw isn’t all smart and Hufflepuff isn’t all kind.”

Thorin thought about this. Bilbo had a point, but he still didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of brandishing an emerald snake on his chest. Nevertheless, Slytherins were known for their determination and resourcefulness, and Thorin had those in spades. He repeated again, this time with less harshness, “I don’t want to be in Slytherin.”

Bilbo smiled at him. “You don’t have to,” he said once more, then extricated Thorin’s books from his arms. Without another word, he walked them to the counter where the old man was waiting with a broad grin in place. Thorin’s parents were waiting there as well, his father looking even more irritated than before and his mother with a resigned air about her. She straightened and smiled when she saw him.

Thorin’s father didn’t say anything when he saw the two books Thorin had chosen. All he did was pluck them from Bilbo’s hands and shove them into his wife’s purse—which was bigger on the inside—before turning to Bilbo’s grandfather and holding out some Galleons. The octopus snatched them from his hand and dropped to the bottom of the fish bowl with its prize.

“Damn the thing,” Bilbo’s grandfather muttered.

“You should consider putting the creature someplace else, Mr Took,” said Thorin’s mother.

“No, it’s fine. She’ll give them back, eventually. After I feed her some Grindylow eggs, I’m sure.” He smiled at Thorin’s mother. “They’re her favourite treat.”

“Yes, well, thank you for the books,” Thorin’s father said. “Time to go.”

“Say goodbye, Thorin,” his mother added.

He turned to Bilbo and held out a hand. “A pleasure.”

Instead of shaking his hand like civilised people did, Bilbo clasped it between both of his and regaled him with the brightest smile Thorin had ever seen. Not even Frerin’s impish grins were so blinding.

“Goodbye, Thorin,” Bilbo said, and it was then that Thorin realised the boy hadn’t known his name until his mother had uttered it just a moment ago. “Take care.”

“Yes.” Thorin frowned a little, taken aback by Bilbo’s enthusiasm. It wasn’t likely that they would ever meet again, not even if the boy started going to Hogwarts in a few years. Thorin would be an older student with his own group of friends, and he would have forgotten all about this encounter by then. “You, too.”

“Thanks for your purchase,” said Mr Took.

Once they were out of the shop and making their way down the street, Thorin turned to his father. “Can we come here always, sir? I liked it better than Flourish and Blotts.”

“Flourish and Blotts is a thousand times better than Old Took’s House of Books, son,” said Thorin’s father. “Be thankful that old wanker had what you needed. I still think we should have gone to Marcus Whilgrimsted’s Magical Words.”

“Mr Took was lovely,” Thorin’s mother objected.

As they started bickering under their breath, Thorin glanced back to try and catch a glimpse of the bookshop. He didn’t, having already disappeared behind a corner, but he remembered where it was and would perhaps try to come back if the chance ever presented itself. Bilbo would like to know into which House he had been sorted, and if he was enjoying his books on amulets, and if his classes were as boring as he secretly believed they would be.

Yes, Thorin decided. He would meet again with the boy who reminded him of sunlight and gold. He didn’t know when or where, since nuances like those were hardly ever in one’s control, but he would. Maybe they would both be sporting their House colours next time they met, and maybe their colours would be the same.


End file.
